


Fighting Horror with Horror

by quantumducky



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A Cursed Object Made Them Do It, Altered Mental States, Dubious Consent, It/Its Pronouns For Michael | The Distortion (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Other, Sort Of, set vaguely in s2 i think?, this time simply because i like to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:02:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27093241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quantumducky/pseuds/quantumducky
Summary: Michael finds Jon having some... difficulties... related to a Web artifact.
Relationships: Michael | The Distortion/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 4
Kudos: 84
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Fighting Horror with Horror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [graveExcitement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/graveExcitement/gifts).



Jon shouldn’t have picked up the gloves. He didn’t know why he  _ had, _ in the first place, but, well- that was rather the point, wasn’t it?

Maybe he should have been more suspicious from the start, although it would be the first time in his life anyone had accused him of trusting  _ too _ much. There simply hadn’t been anything about the situation to suggest it wasn’t normal. A woman around the age of his grandmother had come in with a statement- one for the discredited section, even before it recorded to his computer without issue; the ghostly behaviour she described sounded more like the results of her own forgetfulness. It didn’t matter. The important thing was that, when she left, she’d forgotten something in Jon’s office.

A pair of gloves, silky in material and off-white with the passage of time- the sort of thing only a woman his grandmother’s age  _ would _ wear outside some sort of costume event. He vaguely remembered her taking them off to sign the forms involved in giving a statement. She must have set them on his desk and forgotten to take them with her when she left. No doubt she’d be back for them as soon as she noticed they were missing, especially considering how old and well cared for they appeared to be. He resolved to take them upstairs to the receptionist’s desk if she didn’t return by the end of the day, and then he moved them to the corner of his desk and moved on to something actually  _ real. _

Jon was quickly absorbed in his work, as usual, to the near exclusion of all other considerations. He only briefly noted when it began to feel colder in his office than was usual, and even then, only to be annoyed that the stiffness it caused in his hands was slowing him down. He didn’t so much as look up from his computer screen as he absently- maybe it would be more accurate to say  _ subconsciously- _ reached across his desk for the gloves, still sitting where he’d left them, and pulled them on.

They did warm his hands, and he half forgot about it after that until his phone buzzed, informing him that most people would have gone home an hour ago. Then, as he picked it up and quieted the reminder, he realized he was wearing the woman’s forgotten gloves. It was strange that he’d been able to put them on so easily; he wouldn’t have expected them to be exactly the right size and shape for his hands. Regardless, they weren’t  _ his, _ and he needed to take them off and deliver them upstairs.

Alarm bells started blaring in his head when he… couldn’t.

Nothing  _ stopped _ him, not… not physically. He just- he couldn’t get himself to do it. He looked down, started the motion of tugging a glove off one hand with the other, and the next thing he knew, he’d been rubbing his fingertips over the lacy texture on the back of his hand for nearly a full minute and his mind was fuzzy with forgotten intentions. What had he been doing just now? He was sure it couldn’t have been too important. If it was, he would have written it down for himself. At any rate, it was past time to leave the Institute for the day. He started collecting his things and, as he did so, noticed that he was wearing the gloves that woman who’d come to give a statement had left behind. That was strange. He ought to take them upstairs in case she came back for them. Halfway to reaching for one of them, a sense of familiarity washed over him, and he froze as soon as he realized why, soft velvet oblivion threatening at the edges of his thoughts. He put his hands flat on the desk in front of him and swore quietly.

It was just- the woman’s actual  _ statement _ hadn’t had anything to do with her gloves, or, or any of what was happening to him now. She’d just been convinced her house was haunted because she occasionally felt a cold draft. He had simply  _ assumed _ that, if she wasn’t telling him about a real supernatural experience, it meant she didn’t have one. Evidently it had not been a  _ safe _ assumption to make. But then… how strongly did he remember them belonging to her at all? Was he absolutely sure she’d left them on his desk, that they hadn’t found their way there by some other means? What proof did he have, really, that even his initial instinct to find them innocuous hadn’t been slipped into his head by the same force that took control when he tried to get them off?

Jon could feel his pulse racing, just short of panic. He tried one more time to get the gloves off. He couldn’t say he really expected it to work, and he was right. This time, he glanced at the clock first- it seemed the blank, absent state lasted a bit longer with every attempt. Even when he went so far as to pretend he was doing something else and surprise them, he ended up with nothing for his efforts except an irrational sense of embarrassment over trying it.

He slumped in his chair and examined his hands more closely. There was still nothing strange about the gloves’ appearance. He decided to be grateful that he was alone in the archives and no one would walk in and see him in this predicament, if only because the alternative was wishing fervently that anyone else were around to help. The moment he thought to leave his office and go looking for them, he lost a solid five minutes and blinked back to full consciousness with a lighter in his hand and the vaguest memory of getting it out of his desk. That odd one that had been delivered to the archives- he’d forgotten he even had it, to be honest.

He had no idea what he’d been thinking of doing with it. He didn’t smoke anymore, and even if he had, his office would be the worst possible place to do it. He put it back in the drawer and reached for his phone, hoping he could at least call someone and tell them what had happened, and then he was holding the lighter again. He’d flicked it on this time, and his hand was dangerously close to a stack of files on his desk.

In a split second of panic, he threw it away from him. It landed somewhere on the other side of the office. He could at least  _ hope _ that it wouldn’t be quite as easy to stand up and retrieve it without noticing as it had been to get it out of his pocket. He rested his hands on the desk again and stared at them. They were shaking- evidently  _ that _ was still permitted. He was afraid to move, afraid to do anything at all that might lose him the privilege of controlling his own body again. The only thing he could do now was sit here and wait until morning, and hope his assistants would be able to figure out the problem even if he wasn’t allowed to explain it.

He tried to relax in his desk chair. He ought to make himself comfortable, at least, if he was planning to remain where he was for the rest of the night. Which he was- the mere idea of all the things that might go wrong if he tried to leave was enough to keep him there. And as long as he stayed in his office, he wasn’t at risk of hurting anyone except himself.

Even as he had the thought, he could feel it coming on again. He tried to stay calm, but it was impossible not to panic in that last second, just after losing control of his limbs and just before losing the awareness required to care. He forgot all his reasonable ideas about waiting it out, and the only thought he was capable of was desperation to move or scream or, or do anything that might give him some chance of being rescued from this. He couldn’t, of course, and his consciousness went dark.

When he “woke up,” this time, it was… different. He hadn’t done anything, thank goodness, and barely any time had passed. His first instinct was to check himself over, just to be sure, and that was when he realized he still couldn’t move. Even the terror that flared through him wasn’t right. His muscles didn’t stiffen with it the way they should have. His eyes were locked on an arbitrary bit of the wall across from him; he couldn’t so much as blink. If it were possible, he thought he might have started to cry.

At least… at least he wasn’t being made to go anywhere. He was… safe. For a  _ very _ broad definition of the word.

And his thoughts were still his own. He could try to distract himself, if nothing else. It was difficult, to say the least, to find a topic that wouldn’t bend inevitably back around to the magnetic point of his fear, and he was fairly certain that the concept of clearing one’s mind so as not to think about anything at all was a scam upheld only by the general population’s unwillingness to admit it was impossible. It didn’t get any easier the longer he was frozen, as his body started to protest holding a pose and his eyes burned with staring at nothing. He was desperate for anything else to focus on by the time something crossed his mind that was capable of holding his attention.

Honestly, he didn’t know for certain what it  _ was. _ It was a bit like trying to fall asleep: by the time it actually worked, he wasn’t aware enough to remember it afterwards. The next thing he  _ did _ know came a few minutes later, when he was startled back to full alertness by the sound of his own fingers tapping idly against the surface of his desk. Almost as soon as he registered it, it stopped, and he found once again that he couldn’t move. But… he  _ had. _ Unless he’d- imagined it, somehow. Cautiously, and with a few false starts, he tried to let his mind wander again. He could be sure of it this time: as soon as his thoughts drifted off to some new film he’d been hearing about, he shifted in his seat and leaned forward to prop his head on his hand. Trying to move  _ intentionally _ got him not only frozen in place, but very nearly sent unconscious again. He wasn’t going to risk that a second time.

So it seemed the only way he could retain any modicum of control was by giving it up- this way, at least, it was of his own volition. If it was the only choice he had, he would much rather give himself over to whatever random impulses came to him than the whims of some malevolent force… even if he had a lingering fear that even his impulses might not be purely his. He had a better chance of catching himself if he started to do something dangerous, at any rate, and it… it wasn’t terrible. He could survive this.

After thinking a thing like  _ that, _ he should have known he’d ruin it for himself somehow. It didn’t take long. He was sitting there, carefully thinking of nothing in particular, occasionally shifting in his seat and wishing time would pass faster, and then he happened to- to shift in a way that, ah, felt rather  _ good. _ Without thinking- well,  _ obviously, _ without thinking- he repeated it. Determined as he was not to be aware of his own actions, maybe he could be excused for not realizing where exactly this was going until he caught himself in the act of absently unbuttoning his trousers. He froze in place, of course, as soon as he startled with a decent amount of horror and tried to pull his hands away, and then… well. Then he was sitting at his desk, unable to move, with a hand halfway in his pants and the worst case of bad timing his inconsistent libido had ever suffered from in its existence.

He couldn’t just, just sit here and have a  _ wank _ in his damn  _ office. _ For  _ so _ many reasons, not least the mess he’d be left with until he had control of his body again. But the alternative was… hardly more reasonable. If he let himself go on autopilot  _ now, _ he knew his first impulse would be to- to get on with it, so his only other option was to spend the entire night stuck in this exact position. Anyway, as it turned out, the decision was sort of made for him. He couldn’t  _ not _ think about it at this point, even if he wanted to. He tried to calm down and resign himself to waiting for someone to find him like this. It did not necessarily  _ work _ and mostly just caused him more anxiety- which, somehow, didn’t even save him from still being uncomfortably aroused. And then:

“Oh,  _ dear, _ Archivist.”

Jon hadn’t even registered the sound of Michael opening a door into his office. Really, could it have picked any  _ worse _ time to bother and/or threaten him? He couldn’t react, or even turn around to look. There was a brief pause before it walked up to him and spun his chair around so they were facing each other. Jon swore internally, burning with embarrassment he couldn’t actually express. He couldn’t move his eyes in order to look directly at its face, but he was fairly certain it was finding all this amusing.

“It seems you’ve gotten yourself into quite a tricky situation.” It paused and tilted its head, looking him over. “…Would you like some help with that?”

It was unclear whether it was referring to the cursed gloves or Jon’s equally damnable erection. Not like he could answer, either way. Michael seemed to realize that after a moment and shook its head with a sigh. He wanted to flinch when it reached towards him, but it only rested its wrong-feeling hand lightly on his shoulder. He looked up and shivered- only partly out of fear, said a bit of him he was trying not to listen to- and registered that it was actually  _ helping _ just in time to stop himself from pulling away. Under any other circumstances, he liked to think he wouldn’t want it touching him.

The worry that it could be  _ responsible _ for his situation somehow was dispelled, at least, when it bent to take a closer look at the gloves and its lip curled. “Spiders,” it scoffed, not appearing to notice Jon’s reaction. “They can’t touch  _ me, _ of course, but they certainly try. You are less fortunate.”

It was… doing something to him. He struggled to think in a straight line. Even the cold dread its last statement had caused didn’t grasp him strongly enough to keep hold of. But he wasn’t frozen in place any longer, and that was enough to make him believe there was a decent chance it didn’t intend too much harm. Not this time, at least. He shook his head in a failed attempt to collect himself. “Are you going somewhere with this,” he finally got out, “or are you just here to laugh at me?” He wanted to sound sharp, impatient, like maybe he still had some dignity, but most of the bite was lost somewhere between his brain and his mouth, and all he actually managed to do was avoid letting it come across like a plea for help.

Michael hummed. “I can go somewhere, if you like. Give me your hand.”

He hesitated. He didn’t think he should trust it too easily; he was just struggling at the moment to remember why. “Wh- what, uh, what are you going to…”

“Your hand, Archivist,” it repeated impatiently. Its illusion of normalcy wavered a bit, and Jon suddenly remembered that he was trapped in a room with an unpredictable eldritch being that could very much kill him if it wanted to. His mind blanked with fear for half a second, and the next thing he knew, he’d given both his hands over to whatever Michael wanted with them without even thinking about it.

“Hmm, yes, I  _ see.” _ It looked down at him slyly. “They really don’t want to let you go… not until you’ve done what they want. What is that, I wonder?”

“I, I don’t know… nothing I’m  _ willing _ to do,” he said as firmly as he could. “Nearly made me set my desk on fire earlier, and I’d rather not find out what other ideas they have.”

Michael nodded. “And that includes… this?” It gestured to the state it had found him in.

“Well, uh, not- not  _ exactly.” _ He resolutely ignored his own burning face as he explained the half-solution he’d ended up with, and the way it… hadn’t exactly solved anything. “So it’s, it’s just, I mean- I’m at  _ work, _ I can’t…” He trailed off into incredulous silence at the look Michael was giving him. “Don’t tell me you’re  _ recommending _ it.”

“Not… exactly,” it said slowly. “I am… giving you a choice. I can return your hands to you and leave you to wait, if you prefer. Or… I could…  _ assist. _ As long as you are aware of it, as long as you  _ fear _ it, it will hold you. I can help you forget, and… the other part, as well, of course.”

Jon looked down at his hands. After remaining in Michael’s grip for a while, they had started to tingle as if losing circulation, and that should have been a bad thing, but- it was such a  _ different kind _ of bad, it circled back around and felt like relief. As soon as he started to actually consider it, he felt something else, terribly familiar: his consciousness being shoved away, as his body tried to wrench itself away with enough force to dislocate something- and then Michael let go of his shoulder to grip his face, and he went limp under a new wash of the odd static feeling and reeled with the whiplash loss and return of his senses. He was suddenly terrified by the idea of it letting him go.

“Yes,” he gasped, rushing in case he lost control again. “Please. To- to all of it, just- do whatever you need to.” He refused to think about how stupid this surely was; he could worry about that once it was over.

Michael smiled-  _ smirked, _ really- rotated his chair so his back was to the desk and sat straddling his legs. It felt lighter than it should have, but he didn’t have time to wonder about that before it leaned in and placed its hands either side of his face, and he stopped thinking anything coherent at all.

It was in his mind, or- it had  _ become _ his mind. He couldn’t tell the difference. Only that it was there, brushing up against his fragmented thoughts and telling him he was doing well and had nothing to worry about. He’d been distressed a moment ago, but he had no idea why. Why would he be upset, when nothing existed for him except fuzzy scraps of color and sound and sensation and his only purpose was to feel good? There was no reason to be upset about  _ that; _ it was the easiest thing in the world. He wasn’t certain it was even possible for him to stop.

He couldn’t feel his hands, or maybe he didn’t  _ have _ hands, but it didn’t matter. His existence wasn’t one that required that sort of thing. He had no use for hands when he could rut mindlessly against the weight on his lap, gasping and whining when it gave him just enough pressure and friction to tease and no more. Something else touched his lips lightly, an offering making itself known, and when he opened his mouth eagerly to accept it he tasted the colour green. He couldn’t care less what it was as long as it didn’t  _ stop. _ There was a sharp pain in his hands, which might not have existed, and it was wonderful. His entire body was hot and cold and prickling with sensory confusion. Everything felt good, and so he leaned into all of it equally, but there was a… a growing sense of urgency, seeping through his cracked-open mind.

He felt amusement from the other voice, the one who  _ wasn’t _ shattered into little pieces helpless to do anything but  _ take _ and  _ feel. _ It told him to be patient, but he didn’t know what that meant, and he doubted he was capable of it anyway. He was hardly capable of remembering how to move, which muscles he needed to coordinate in order to keep chasing the pleasure that was his world. Everything was so much and so good, but none of it was  _ quite _ what he needed, whatever that was, and as it all built to the point of overwhelming him, he was reduced to a limp, helpless puddle, twitching aimlessly and whimpering desperate pleas around the curl of long fingers that filled his mouth. He wasn’t breathing anymore, but he didn’t care, the only thing worth caring about was-

A harsh pressure ground against his cock at the same moment pain lanced through his hands, and the feelings blurred together as he came with a muffled cry. The world around him may as well not have existed. He lay boneless and panting until the capability for conscious thought began to return.

When Jon remembered how to perform the basic action of opening his eyes, Michael was gone, and he was slumped loosely in his desk chair with a massive headache and a sticky mess in his pants. He struggled to sit up and glanced anxiously at the clock- still far too early for anyone else to be in the building any time soon, thank goodness. Then, his gaze landed on the gloves.

They were sitting in the middle of his desk. They were also shredded into a hundred little scraps of fabric. A note in his own handwriting placed next to the pile read, “They will not be a problem again.” He looked down at his hands to find them covered in faint scratches, shallow enough that they’d already stopped bleeding. There was an indescribable taste left in his mouth and the salt of dried tear tracks lining his face. He refused to think about how  _ good _ he still felt, despite it all. He swept the torn fabric into the bin without touching it and stood, legs feeling like they were moving underwater, to stumble his way to the toilets. If he was quick, he might be able to finish cleaning up before the full extent of the freaking out he was about to do set in.

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know why i'm incapable of leading up to the sexy part in a way that isn't overly complicated but here we are... just, like, pretend that all made perfect sense k


End file.
